


flour, salt, a little red wine

by iphigenias



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Facials, Kitchen Sex, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, handwaves timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28889499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: “You know, when you invited me over for the night,” David pants, “this is not what I had in mind.”
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 41
Kudos: 169





	flour, salt, a little red wine

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this instead of preparing for my meeting with my thesis supervisor. i’ve never written?? a proper smut fic before?? also i’m a lesbian so. read with a grain of salt, i guess.
> 
> discarded titles for this fic include yes i do the cooking, kneady for love, doughn’t go breaking my heart, two hundred degrees (fan forced). actual title from the greatest christmas song to ever exist (leave a comment if u know it!)

“You know, when you invited me over for the night,” David pants, “this is not what I had in mind.” David can feel the muscles in his arms literally shaking; Patrick’s breath on his neck is hot and annoyingly amused. He rests his big hands over David’s, kissing the side of his neck, brief and sweet.

“Dare I ask?” Patrick presses firmly into his hands, leaning his not-inconsiderable strength into David. Beneath their joint effort, the bread dough submits with a gentle sigh.

“It’s just—” David pushes his frustration into the dough, “we haven’t seen each other for three days! You had your—” here, he redacts the word _stupid_ , “tax seminar and then I had to drive Alexis to her thing in Elmdale and Dad _insisted_ on a family dinner last night, so _excuse me_ if I thought _cooking lessons_ was like, code!”

Patrick laughs, brilliant and full-bodied. He pulls away from David with another kiss to the side of his jaw, leaning against the floured counter with that incredibly aggravating, incredibly _hot_ smirk on his face. “What on earth could cooking lessons be a euphemism for, David?”

“You tell me!” When David throws his hands in the air a good portion of the flour goes with them. It dusts over him and Patrick like the lightest Manhattan snow. “…sorry.”

“That’s quite the mess there.” Patrick’s still smirking, and his arms are crossed the way he _knows_ make his forearms look massive. “Maybe I’ll leave you to the clean-up.”

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“Hm.” Patrick slides against the counter until he’s in front of David, who brackets him in with his arms. “Or, since it’s already messy…”

David feels very hot and annoyed all over. “Please tell me this is a euphemism.” Patrick laughs, dropping the smirk at last—the smile on his face is genuine, gentle, the one reserved just for David. It’s really fucking attractive, and David has no choice but to kiss him.

Patrick—Patrick is everywhere. His mouth, on David’s. His hands on David’s hips, running up his sides, cradling the back of his neck. He tastes like flour and the wine they’d had earlier, a tester from a potential vendor, rich and sweet with the slightest edge of bitterness. David chases it from Patrick’s lips, licks it from his mouth, wants and wants and wants and Patrick groans, so fucking quietly, and it’s the hottest thing David’s ever heard. 

David grips Patrick’s thighs, moves to lift him on the counter. “David—the bread—” Patrick pants. “Just let me—” He shifts along the counter and the movement brings their hips flush together. This time, when Patrick groans, it’s loud and broken-sounding and God, _this_ is the hottest thing David’s ever heard. “Okay—now—” David listens and lifts him to the counter and yep, they’ve missed the bread dough but there’s still flour fucking everywhere, how did it get all the way over here? It’s in Patrick’s hair and streaked across his cheek like—like—David almost blacks out at the sight, kisses Patrick for dear life, and God he’s so, so fucking hard, there’s dough all over his hands and he really should wash them because it’s all over Patrick’s clothes, now, but David knows for a fact those jeans are twenty bucks from Target and he literally could not care less.

He fumbles at the zip of the jeans—Patrick’s not wearing a belt, he’s _always_ wearing a belt, David _knew_ the cooking lessons were a euphemism. “David,” Patrick breathes, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to say and David’s heart fucking seizes, “wait—fuck—” His hands find the hem of David’s sweater and tug. “Don’t want to ruin it,” he says, and fuck, _that’s_ the hottest thing David’s ever heard. He lets Patrick pull the Rick Owens over his head, watches him set it carefully on the flour-free edge of the counter and fuck, David loves him. The words, still so new, feel _right_ sitting in David’s throat and Patrick’s looking at him with his face all funny and he leans in, kisses David like he’s something precious.

“Okay,” he says, sliding off the counter which is like, the _opposite_ of what David wants—but then Patrick is turning them, pressing David into the marble, pressing kisses along his jaw and down his throat as he sinks inexorably to his knees and David has to press a hand to his mouth to keep everything he’s feeling inside. Patrick kisses the fat over David’s hip like it’s his favourite thing in the world, buries his nose in the thick hair around David’s navel and breathes in and David is so, so hard, can feel himself leaking into his underwear, makes desperate grabby hands at Patrick’s shoulders who laughs, fucking _laughs_ into David’s stomach, but David doesn’t have time to be mad because Patrick is undoing his clasp, letting the kilt fall into a puddle on the floor. He mouths at David’s cock over the fabric of his briefs and David’s head falls back with an audible thump against the cupboard. Patrick pulls off appallingly and looks up, concerned and fucking doe-eyed, asks, “you okay?” and David hates him, David loves him, can only nod and shift his hips until Patrick grins, gets the hint. He catches a finger over the elastic of David’s briefs, tugs them slowly, too slowly, he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing—finally pulls them free of David’s cock, which Patrick doesn’t even look at because he’s pulling David’s briefs all the way to his ankles and pressing the softest kiss against his left knee as he does, like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather do than kiss David’s knees. And it’s so fucking _nice_ David wants to cry, but like, this also isn’t how he imagined tonight going. He must make some kind of noise because Patrick looks up again—how does he _still_ has that flour streaked over his cheek, David is about to lose his mind— _laughs_ , and finally takes David into his mouth.

He’s careful to start, like he always is. Takes the tip into his mouth, one of his big hands coming to wrap loosely around the shaft, the other pressed against David’s hip, steadying him. He presses aching kisses down the vein until he meets his hand, takes it from David’s cock and licks, hot and messy, all over his palm, looking up at David as he does it. “Stop—messing around—” David groans as Patrick’s fingers return to his cock, feather-light. Patrick laughs again; presses a kiss to the inside of David’s thigh.

“I don’t know, babe,” he grins. “I’m kind of having fun down here.” He places a kiss at David’s tip then pulls away. “Why don’t you tell me what you had in mind?”

David shoots him as withering a gaze as possible while trying to keep from falling apart. “Suck my cock, Patrick,” he enunciates as crisply as possible. Patrick grins, presses another kiss to David’s other thigh.

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

This time, Patrick takes David into his mouth hot and fast and deep. His spit-slick hand comes to the base where his mouth can’t reach, twisting slowly, deliberately, and it’s so fucking perfect David almost can’t stand it.

It’s too soon when Patrick pulls off, grinning at the whimper David involuntarily releases. “Since we’re talking about what we want,” he says, and fuck, his voice is raw and thready. “Fuck my mouth, David.” He returns to David’s cock with renewed vigour, all frat boy confidence and no finesse, and David—David’s never been able to say no to a request like that.

He takes Patrick’s hand from his hip, laces their fingers together, and starts to fuck Patrick’s mouth. Slow, at first, but then Patrick groans around his cock, spit and come dribbling down his chin, and David’s never been a bastion of self-control. His thrusts become harder, messier, Patrick’s mouth sloppy around him, and there’s fucking _dough_ in his hair and David can feel the pressure building, taps frantically at Patrick’s shoulder who starts to pull off but _fuck_ , David mistimed, and Patrick’s tongue does this last little _twist_ and David is coming and coming and it gets in Patrick’s throat, over his chin, a streak over his cheek exactly where the flour was a second ago. David stares, horrified, and starts to apologise, but Patrick is taking his hand from David’s softening cock, wipes the come from his chin, from beneath his eye; wraps that same hand around his dick, which David didn’t even realise he had out—pumps once, twice and is coming into his fist with a broken groan. He pauses like that, shoulders hunched and shaking, before raising his head and kissing David’s knee again.

“Uh uh, no, up here.” David makes grabby hands until Patrick complies, lets David pull him to his feet and into his chest, scatters absent kisses into David’s neck like it’s the best thing since sliced bread and oh, fuck, the bread. It’s still sitting on the counter beside them, like some old-timey horror film cutaway.

David kisses crumbs from Patrick’s hairline. “Yeah, we are not eating that.”

Patrick’s shoulders start to shake and he kisses his laughter into the corner of David’s mouth before leaning back and schooling his expression into that earnest, Boy Scout cookie face David’s pretty sure even Ronnie couldn’t resist.

“But David,” he says, wide-eyed and innocent. “It was baked in our lovin’ oven.”

“I’m breaking up with you,” David replies, but Patrick’s laughter is contagious and, well. If David smiles at the joke, there’s no one except his dumbass boyfriend around to see.

**Author's Note:**

> @[svnsvstvrk](https://twitter.com/svnsvstvrk) on twitter ❤️


End file.
